Voleurs à la Nouvelle Orléans
by glasses-are-dead-sexy
Summary: "And who are you?" "I, petite, am the prince of thieves, and you just stole my wallet."
1. Wallets and Whiskey

I strolled along the cracked pavement, my uncontrollable afro hair bouncing in time to the slap of my tattered flip-flops. I wore a faded denim mini skirt and an orange tank top. Simple. Nothing to stand out or draw unwanted attention to myself while I was working. I snorted, _working_, that's one word for it. Stepping into a shop entrance, I pretended to search my wicker tote bag while surveying the crowd for a potential mark. I called them marks; but really they were unsuspecting citizens of the City of New Orleans about to part with their cash. Involuntarily. I spied one, a classic southern rich-bitch; whining down her phone, with too much money and attitude and not enough common sense or manners. I smiled; this would be fun. Leaving the shade of my doorway, I stepped back into the crowd and headed towards her. I bumped into her, causing her to drop her phone and shopping bags; their contents spilling over the street. She was too busy yelling at me that she wouldn't notice until much later that her crocodile skin wallet had mysteriously disappeared from her Gucci handbag. As I walked away from her I glanced into my bag and smiled. Five wallets and I hadn't even stopped for lunch. Today was going to be a good day.

Don't get me wrong, I know stealing is bad– and I certainly wouldn't recommend pick-pocketing as a fulfilling career. But a girl has to eat, right?

"Hey Jules." It was dusk as I stepped into the bar; it smelt like Cajun spices, cigarette smoke and whisky. It smelt like _home._ Jules was the owner of said bar. He was a good-natured Frenchman with thick bands of muscles, sparkling eyes and yellowed teeth. He was also the closest thing I had to family. Sad when you think about it.

"Bonsoir petite, how was your day?" He slid a glass of orange juice over the counter and gave me a crooked grin as I hopped onto a bar stool.

"Productive. Got any food?"

"Deux packets of crisps and some pot-noodles."

"That's pathetic."

"Hey little missy, this ain't non restaurant, you want grub, you go round back 'n make yourself some."

"Fine. Fancy passing me some of that Jack Daniels?" Jules slapped my hand away as I reached for the bottle. "Non, don't tu dare. I ain't serving non 13 year old fille alcohol." I rolled my eyes at him and headed to the back room to make myself some jambalaya. The bar was beginning to fill anyway, and Jules worried about me being in a room full of rowdy drinkers, usually fighting over lost poker games or a pool bet. Not like I couldn't handle myself – being a class 4 mutant certainly had its perks.


	2. A baseball bat? Really?

I woke in the morning with my legs tangled in off-white sheets, panting heavily and sweating like a pig. Damn nightmares. They always got worse this time of year, because this was the time of year that….I groaned; lights flashed behind my eyelids and my stomach heaved. I needed water. And maybe some counselling.

I rolled of the bed and flung the curtains open; letting the bright southern, sunlight stream into the room.

Stumbling into the miniature en-suite I peeled my nightshirt off and stepped into the shower. As the cool water ran over my aching body, my mind started to replay the dream. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut but it did nothing to stop the onslaught of haunting images. I gasped and clutched at my head trying to shake the pictures out of my brain.

Beside me, the shower stopped and started in spastic fits, drumming against the tiled walls in high pressure bursts. Through the glass of the shower door I saw the old fashioned taps on the sink begin to shake, before they finally blew apart in a spray of fizzing water. The water in the toilet was bubbling and it would have been comical if the toilet hadn't then been shattered by the power of the water within it.

Water was everywhere. It was boiling and freezing on the bathroom floor and walls, it was beneath me in pipes running around the buildings. It was in my head. Screaming faces in a sea of water. My hands were beginning to shake and I could hear the foundations of the building begin to creak, as the water pipes froze and unfroze themselves. I could feel water particles everywhere, shaking and moving. Always moving.

Just before I couldn't take anymore of it, I felt a sharp pain in my head and it all went black.

When I awoke later I was lying in my bed staring up at the cracked ceiling. I say my bed, it was really Jules' spare bed but I had made it my own. As I pondered the theories of ownership and self-belonging, a gruff voice made a noise close to me. I turned to look at the owner of the gruff voice and found it was Jules. Jules. Who was Jules? With a jolt it all came rushing back to me. The shower, the exploding pipes and the pain in my head.

I found my voice, "Did you hit me over the head with your baseball bat?"

Jules looked down sheepishly, "_Désolé_ petite, _mais_ you were so far gone. I didn' know what t' do."

I frowned, "So you hit me with a baseball bat? Really J, I expected better from you."

"Here, let me have a look at y'." Jules eased me into a sitting position to get a closer look at my swelling head.

"Why? Do you have a secret medical degree I never knew about?"

"Enough cheek from you _fille_, if _tu_ hadn't decided to _sauter _the bathroom, I never would have hit you."

"I didn't decide to blow up the bathroom; I just got a little out of control….ow!" I yelped as Jules poked a sensitive spot.

"_Désolé, _I'll get you water, _oui_?" He left the room before I could find something to throw at him.

While he was gone I slipped my shirt back on and risked a peek at the bathroom. The door was open and had bits of enamel toilet bowl embedded in it, and the floor was alternatively covered in sheets of ice or soggy paper, where Jules had tried to mop up the mess. The walls were shiny with condensation and the shower area was frozen solid. Remains of toilet and tap were scattered everywhere, and there was a hole under the window where I had busted a pipe.

I jumped when Jules' heavy hand landed on my shoulder, "There now _petite_ 's not that bad, no need to cry." I wiped away the tears I hadn't known were there and took the offered glass of water.

"Thanks." I managed a weak smile before I tipped the water over my sore head. The water soaked through my hair, staining it an even darker brown, before it touched the tender spot. It was then immediately absorbed into the wound and used to heal it.

I don't know any another mutant who can do that. Sure, there are healers. But I have never met anyone who heals with the aid of water.

I discovered that part of my mutation after slicing my hand open on a broken whiskey glass (the hazards of cleaning a bar). Anyway, I was washing the cut under the tap - Jules hovering next to me, clutching a first aid kit – when I noticed the cut had vanished. It was gone! After many tests (or sick, twisted tortures as Jules called them) I realized I could heal, extremely rapidly, as long as I came in contact with water. This came in handy if you had just been knocked about with a baseball bat.

Despite Jules' protests I left for work later that morning.

It was a busy day, tourist season, and the bustling streets of the french quarter were full of rich buisness men and their families, which meant lots of money for the pick-pockets. It's not like I steal for fun - though the rush of adrenaline is always a bonus - but I need the money. Despite what Jules says, I do have to pay him rent. Because although his bar is successful, it costs money to maintain. If I didn't give him money for my keep, he would be forced to turf me out to the streets, and I've lived on the streets and I don't wish to do it again.

I finished my iced tea and hit the streets once more, but it was getting late and the crowds were thinning. After half an hour of cruising the district, I was about to give up when I saw the perfect mark. He was tall, handsome, and had the kind of muscle Jules had - the long, ropey kind. His hair was auburn and tousled, and he was wearing sunglasses and a long trenchcoat. Perfect.

* * *

AN. Wonder who it is? haha I know it's a kinda crappy cliffhanger but I am new to this writing lark, so give me some slack. Pleeeeaaaase review?


	3. I never did like fire

I made my way slowly towards Mr. Trench-coat; I could just see the top of his leather wallet poking out his pocket. My itching fingers almost had it when somebody screamed. Quickly I removed my hand, spun around and walked the other way trying to look innocent and cute. Not easy when you are carrying a bag full of stolen wallets.

"_Zut allors_! Look, a fire!" I turned shocked; I thought the scream had meant my immediate arrest. Realizing my mistake I relaxed and found the source of all the excitement. Sure enough there was a fire, a big one, it looked like at least a couple of buildings were alight. I could see several fire engines and a police car spread in a semicircle around the blaze, they were attempting to tame the fire but not having mush success.

Should I help?

Was there any possible way for me to put the fire out without them realizing my mutant status?

Mr. Trench-coat forgotten I started towards the fire; it was on St. Mercy street, down the road. Funny, that was where Jules' bar was.

Oh. No.

I began to sprint towards the commotion. As I neared I saw wild flames leaping out of _'Le Français fou'- _my home for the past year and Jules' pride and joy.

The three story building was a mass of flames and heat and charcoal, fire-fighters struggled with a thick yellow hose to try and cool the fire. I grabbed the nearest policeman I could see - trying to convince myself _this was not happening_. He was massive with no hair and his deep ebony skin shone in the bright sunlight.

"Where are the people who were in this building?" I sounded crazy, screeching with panic in my eyes. The man crouched down to my height, and took my shaking hands.

"Woah _petite_! Hush and slow down, what is it you want?"

"There was a man, dark hair, muscle, red shirt, cajun, he lived in the bar. Where _is_ he?"

I am getting frantic now; I am sweating and praying to god that Jules is safe.

My wonderful, lovely Jules.

"Dark hair? Cajun? 'm sorry _fille, mais_ the only people who were in the building are over there."

I scan the huddle of bodies he is pointing at; I see two regulars at the bar, both red headed, and Mrs Lenoir who is 85 with grey hair and an addiction to gin. Ice cold fear trickles down my spine and I wrench myself out of the man's warm grasp and run towards the building, heart thundering in my chest.

"Hey! You can't go in there! 's not safe. Someone grab her!" Two aging policemen gallop after me shouting warnings, but I don't care.

Jules, Jules, Jules. His name is a steady rythm matched to the pounding of my heart.

He _has_ to be safe. He _has_ to be.

I freeze myself before running directly into the flames. I can faintly hear people yelling at me above the sounds of cracking wood and flames roaring, but I ignore them. A beam snaps behind me – blocking the entrance. Shame.

"**Jules**!" I scream. The air is thick and hazy with smoke and it is hard to see anything through the black fog.

"**Jules**!"

I shoot jettisons of water at flames and they begin to back down, I bring down the temperature of the bar to try and kill the heat. All the while searching for Jules.

He is nowhere.

Not in the blackened bar, dining area or kitchen. I have frozen the stairs and now run up them screaming desperately for Jules.

My best friend - my only friend. My family. I _need_ to find him.

I turn into his room and my heart stutters.

Jules is lying on his back on the bed, surrounded by flames and the stench of petrol. He has two bullet holes in the front of his skull.

"No." I am choking on tears and sobs as I stumble towards him.

"NO!"

The fire has no chance now; I have lost control and water bubbles everywhere as I cradle Jules to my chest. His legs and torso are charred but his handsome face is untouched and perfect.

"Jules Jules Jules." I sounded like a wounded animal, pleading with the body in my arms.

I reverently stroke his face as great wracking sobs shake me.

My beautiful Jules, who was like a father to me, even after all my sharp comments. Jules who smiled his dimpled smile at every man who walked through his door. Jules who could brighten your day with nothing more then a cheeky wink. Jules who _cared_. Cared about _me_.

Now that the fire is gone, men in shiny rubber suits come pounding up the stairs, slipping on ice and splashing in puddles. When they burst into the room they are silent as they drink in the scene before them.

My tears are running down Jules' cheeks and I feel sick. I am holding him tightly to my chest; for we will never be separated.

I feel cold and there is a deep piercing pain in my chest as I stare into Jules' once sparkling eyes.

* * *

RIP Jules. I really liked that guy.. I hope at least some of you were moved by the passing of that amazing man.

Pleeeaase can you review, i know the chapter was a little (okay, alot) crap, but still! please review, please? If you do i will make the next chapter extra long and full of remy-goodness! yay! remy!


	4. Is that me?

It has been one week since Jules died. I am back slumming it on the streets, spending my nights curled up in dark, filthy alleyways dreaming of soft, cracked bar stools, a hot bowl of gumbo and Jules.

Always Jules. Jules' smile and his comfort. His advice and his warm laughter.

After my emotional breakdown at the murder scene the numbness set in; the cold emptiness that took away the pain and replaced it with indifference. To avoid questioning from the local law enforcement, I had dissolved into a puddle of water and trickled through burnt floorboards until I was safe and away from prying and judgemental eyes.

The next day I watched the news report on the fire from a murky television shop window:

There were three lucky survivors and one unlucky casualty, Jules Henri Dubois, who died from smoke inhalation. He had no living relatives and his funeral was to take place next Tuesday at St. Luc's church.

The new report confused me; smoke inhalation?

I clearly remembered seeing Jules with his brains blown out; it wasn't smoke that had killed him, it was two shots to the head.

So why had the news report said smoke inhalation? When Jules had obviously been murdered. I hadn't even considered the possibility of Jules taking his own life; he was far too cheerful for it and anyway, it went against his catholic schoolboy teachings.

But Jules didn't have enemies, so who would kill him? I frowned as I tried to work it out; I was missing something - something big.

My musings were interrupted by the chirpy reporter saying 'Breaking news,'

'Police are on the look out for missing child 'Camille Maryse Rousseau'; it is believed she is somewhere in the French district of the greater New Orleans area. Camille's parents are desperately worried about their child and if you have any news please call the help line at the bottom of your screen.' The presenter gave a small, sypathetic smile to his audience before a picture flashed on the screen.

My blood ran cold and an icy shiver crawled up my spine as I stared, frozen in shock, at the child on the television.

She had mocha skin and a wild pile of chocolate afro curls on top of her head, her 'oh so innocent' wide brown eyes were framed by thick dark lashes and she was smiling brightly at the camera without a care in the world.

It was me.

I ducked my head down and subtly checked the small crowd gathered to see if anyone had recognized me. They hadn't. It was unsurprising really; the picture had been taken three years ago when I was 10. Back when I was a smiling bundle of energy and curly hair, who had family and friends and hopes and dreams.

But three years could do a lot someone.

My round cheeks had been lost during the two years I spent living on the streets and even after I met Jules I still rarely smiled. I was no longer a carefree child, but an untrusting teen who had seen far too much in her short life. I even walked differently; I no-longer skipped down cobbled streets but slunk. Wary and slippery with a stance that said 'back off'.

Yes, three years could do a lot.

As I hurried away from the shop and its rows of tv's plastered with my grinning face, my mind was working quickly - you could practically hear the cogs whirring.

It made no sense!

My parents were dead. They died three years ago; I remember their deaths as if they happened yesterday. Their faces blurred under a deep swirl of inky water; their mouths agape and screaming. I shuddered violently, dispelling the images from my mind.

But, if it wasn't my parents looking for me, who was it?

Who had the resources and the money to file me as a missing person, when technically I was dead? Because on record, I died the same fateful day as my parents.

I stopped dead.

Even more importantly, how did they know me?

Nobody knew me!

I left everyone I knew behind me in Mississippi, I even changed my name. Not even Jules knew my real name; he knew me as 'Anna the street urchin' he had found and brought back to his bar to patch up and love.

After all this time who would want to find me and why?

All I knew was that it couldn't be good.

* * *

Hiya, sorry for the lack of Remy, but I promise you he will appear in the next chapter! I just had to sort out some things.

Please could you review? Please? It really makes my day (how sad) so please review! I'll make the next chapter reallly long if I get some reviewsxxxxxx


	5. Hey look, it's Mr Trenchcoat!

Dreams.

It was the dreams I couldn't cope with. The hunger, the un-certainty, the cold and the dirt, the need for human contact; I would suffer them all one thousand times over to end the dreams.

They were dreams of my past; tinkling child's laughter, a yellow bedroom and sweet smelling cherry pie. Warm embraces, wet kisses and stories in the garden under the moon. My mother rubbing cocoa butter into my skin and hair, a cello recital at school, my father's tired face after work. A swirl of coloured party dresses, an old woman under a tree and delicately woven friendship bracelets.

I dreamt of water. Dark, inky water, cold and brooding; sucking the memories one by one into the depths. And I couldn't stop it.

* * *

I was hot. Too hot.

The sun was beating down mercilessly, the air was hazy with heat and it was so _bright_.

But I needed cash, and fast; my stomach was slowly eating itself and I feared if I didn't eat soon I would pass out with hunger.

I surveyed the dusty street for a mark, and someone caught my eye.

It was Mr. Trench-coat from last week, still wearing his damned leather duster in this heat.

Freak

He was leaning against a lamppost; smoking a cigar and watching the people scurry past him behind mirrored sunglasses. He watched them the way I was looking at him; the way a predator looked at its prey. That should have set alarm bells ringing, but I carried on regardless, weaving and ducking my way towards him.

In the split second I passed him, my fingers dug into his warm pockets and lifted his heavy wallet.

Walking quickly away; I investigated my prize, too busy marvelling at the amount of cashed shoved into the worn, leather purse, to notice I was being followed until a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

* * *

_Remy point of view:_

I chuckled at the back of the retreating figure. That was cute, real cute. Some _fille_, a mere _petite_, had just stolen my wallet.

Well, nobody steals Remy's wallet and gets away with it.

I followed her, slinking around the hordes of people cluttering the streets of New Orleans – today was hot and everyone was out enjoying the sunshine. I gazed appreciatively at a group of _belle_ _femmes_ walking by in hot-pants, and thanked the lord for the southern heat.

The culprit was tiny, with crazy curls reminiscent of Tante Mattie's.

She moved like liquid through the crowd, ducking under arms and around men with cases, casually lifting yet more wallets.

I smirked; she'd make a good thief.

I chuckled at the look of surprise on her face when I spun her around. The surprise was quickly replaced by dread and then defiance as she recognised me.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I, petite, am the prince of thieves, and you just stole my wallet."

* * *

I know it was short chicas, and I am truly sorry, but I was also writing my other story (feel free to check it out). But hey, there was Remy! Yay!

If I get lots of lovely reviews I promise to write a nice long chappie for y'all next time. Ciaoxxxx


	6. You like the sewers?

"I don't want any trouble," I eyed the man wearily, "Y' hear? Just take your wallet and leave." I tossed the heavy leather bundle to the pavement and backed away.

To my surprise; instead of threatening me with a beating (or worse) Mr Trench-coat laughed.

A deep, warm laugh which made me suspicious. Was he biding his time before he stuck? Or just a bit nutty in the head? Whichever, it wasn't a good sign. I was slowly inching away when Mr Trench-coat spoke.

"C'mon _petite_ don' look so worried. Remy was jus' having a little fun. What's a pretty girl like you doin' on the streets anyhow?"

Uh-oh. It's never reassuring when the man you robbed starts making small-talk, especially about you current predicament. What was he, social services? Oh god, maybe he had something to do with the news bulletin! Was he the one looking for me?

Like hell I was going to stick around to find out.

So I ran.

My feet thundered loudly on the cracked stone walkway, so it was a while before I realised I was being followed. I glanced behind me. Holy crap! Trench-coat (or Remy) was chasing me, gaining on me by the sound of it!

Time for plan B.

It meant revealing my mutant status and losing my last pair of shoes, but I was fast running out of options.

You want to hear my amazing plan? Here it is, the greatest escape plan ever constructed…I was going to dissolve my self.

A few fun facts about my mutation; I can control water, water can heal me and I can turn into water.

Weird huh?

Anyway, turn into water was precisely what I did. I wish I could have seen Mr Trench-coat's face!

Imagine the scenario; you are chasing after a girl and have almost caught her – you can already feel the soft material of her cardigan as you grab her. When suddenly…no girl! Just a large, puddle of water that's steadily trickling away from you.

Ha.

Well, it's not all good news; I can only liquefy myself, not my clothes and it's hard to navigate when you don't have ears, eyes and a head for example.

That is how I ended up splashing around naked in the sewers of New Orleans.


	7. No, I don't like the sewers!

I shivered before freezing myself – because ice doesn't feel the cold - then scowled as I remembered the reason I was here in the first place: Mr Trench-coat.

Stupid guy with his stupid trench-coat and his stupid questions.

Who wears a trench-coat in August anyway? No one normal that's for sure. And how come he knew it was me who picked his pocket? How come he even knew he'd been robbed? No one else has ever noticed!

Stupid guy with his stupid trench-coat and his stupid knowledge.

I splashed around noisily; kicking the water as I walked through the dank sewers. In a fit of annoyance I hurled the water at the tunnel walls with enough force to crack a few tiles. Oops.

Stupid guy with his stupid trench-coat.

I kept up my grumbling until I reached a junction in the sewers; above me was a heavy, metal disk, covered in slime and rust.

I grimaced; this was so gross. Yet still necessary if I ever wanted to leave the sewer.

I listened closely before clearing my mind; this took concentration. I only wanted to push the manhole cover up enough for me to squeeze through; I didn't want to throw it sky-high.

* * *

_Other point of view_

I spread out my sleeping bag and settled down. The alleyway was pretty nice; not much litter, no rats and more importantly; no gang meetings. I was rummaging around my threadbare rucksack, when the manhole grate further down the alley exploded. That's right… exploded.

Now I've seen some strange things in my time in the streets, but this took the biscuit.

One minute all is quiet, the next, the grate is exploding as a mini tidal wave shoots out the sewer! Next thing I know, a skinny, naked girl is scrambling out. She's all arms and legs and a real funny colour. Kind of a transparent white. She looks up at me and I see its Anna. A naked, white Anna with a sheepish expression on her face.

"Hey Bell. You mind passing me a blanket or something?"

I silently pass her a faded checked shirt; it's not a blanket, but it is clean. Ish.

The shirt almost reaches her knees, she's so short. Anna buttons it clumsily before grinning widely at me.

"Thanks B, you're the best!"

"Y' welcomes sugar. But if y' don't mind me sayin', your lookin' a little on the pale side today."

"Oh right!" Anna winks at me, and suddenly the funny colour fades. She becomes solid and brown and the light stops shining through her.

"That better?" She asks with a cheeky wink.

I raise my eyebrows, "Much…Do I want to know what just happened?"

"Nope. Got any food?"

* * *

_Anna/Carmille point of view_

I munched on chocolate (a gift from B) as I tryed to find my clothes. It's unlikely there'll still be here, but you can't blame a girl for trying. It's around 6 o'clock, and the dusty streets are pretty empty; the bustling crowds have gone and the stragglers that are left pay no attention to a shifty looking kid wearing only a holey shirt. The streets will stay like this until around 8 o'clock – that's when the parties start and the bars fill with loud drunken laughter. It is to be avoided at all costs.

I frowned as I wondered through the street I 'left' my clothes in. They weren't there. Damn.

Bell will be expecting her shirt back soon, and New Orleans gets pretty chilly at night. I could always go and beg her for a blanket, but she looked a little freaked when I left her earlier. Watching a naked girl the colour of a popsicle crawl out of an exploded sewer grate can do that to you.

Stupid rat and its stupid teeth scared me; ruined my focus! Instead of subtly moving the grate, I sent a small river shooting upwards! The city council have some repair work to do.

I grudgingly accepted I wasn't going to see my clothes again and headed home, muttering angrily about trench-coats, rats and clothe-thieves. Bell would have to live without her shirt for a little while.

Home.

It was actually an abandoned tin factory, with crumbling bricks, cardboard windows and no electricity or running water. It was a well known hotspot for crooked deals, squatters and passing thieves.

For $100 a week, I got to call the manager's office my own and I received a small measure of protection. I didn't usually like to associate with _Les serpents noirs_ but gang affiliation had its pros, especially since Jules died.

A huddle of scabby looking men with French swearwords tattooed across their knuckles looked up as I kicked my way through the heavy double doors. I saw envelopes and dirty money before my name was shouted from across the hall.

"Hey, Anna!" Teddy frowned at me and beckoned. I approached cautiously; when Teddy glares, you know something's wrong. The fact he was in the middle of business didn't help soothe my worries.

"_Bonsoir_ Teddy." I eyed him nervously; he was holding a crinkled paper bag in one hand and a switchblade in the other. Knelt on the ground next to him was a trembling young man with blood running from his temple, he was held in place by a couple of Teddy's 'sidekicks'.

"I got something for you," he eyed me with disdain; "But what the hell are you wearin' girl. You wanna get y' self raped?" I blushed at his words and tried to pull the shirt hem down.

"Sorry, it's a long story. You said you had something?" He mutely handed me the rustling paper bag.

"Some guy came and dropped it off. Said to give it to a cute, skinny, dark girl with curly hair. You're the only one who fits the description." He continued to frown as I peeked inside. In the bag lay my clothes, shoes, a sealed container and a wad of cash.

"Was he wearing a trench-coat?" _Please don't say yes,_ _please don't say yes, __please don't say yes..._

"Yes, and he was real dodgy looking too, I don't think you should mix with him Anna. He looked like he was from high up." My blood ran cold. High up meant higher then Ted's gang, higher then whatever the factory could hold.

"You sure? He could just be passing." My voice trembles; if Teddy's right then I'm in a whole load of trouble.

"Oh, he ain't passing, sugar. Rock's thinks he might be from the Guild."

"Rocks don't know shit." I try to conceal my fear with anger, but inside I'm shaking; Guild means big. Guild means murder and money and _power_.

Oh god! Please don't tell me I just tried to pickpocket a Guild member! How could I be so _stupid_!

My horror must have shown on my face because Teddy tried to placate me.

"Hey, it's not all bad Anna. We'll look out for y' if he _is _Guild." I grimace at the offer, the thought of Teddy and his gang of 'black snakes' facing a lethal group of assassins is laughable.

I thank Ted for the message and throw the man on the floor a sympathetic smile before scurrying out of sight.

The stairs in the building fell down years ago, so to get to my apartment - as I like to call it - you have to climb onto a desk then up a ladder to the second floor. Once you're up, you just have to navigate your way across the remaining floorboards and around holes (one right above Teddy and his friends) to reach the manager's office. As there isn't a door left, I heaved an ancient desk in front of the entrance to give the illusion of privacy.

In the far corner next to a yellowed stack of order forms was my sleeping bag and meagre collection of personal belongings. I had, had little to start with, and most of what I did have was destroyed in the fire. All that remained was my wicker bag, three changes of clothes (all stolen since the accident) and a growing pile of wallets.

After a days work, I would do my 'banking'.

I stripped the wallets and kept any ID's or personal affects in a dented wooden box I had found in the office; because you never know when you might need a new identity. I then sorted the cash. It went into three groups: rent money, food money and savings. My savings pile was pitifully low. All my money was stored in an old tin can under a loose floorboard; it was cliché but it worked. I then cleaned up the wallets and gave them to Teddy and co. to sell on the black market.

Away from the prying eyes of downstairs, I investigated the contents of the paper clothes had been washed, pressed and were folded neatly, smelling faintly of lavender. In one of my shoes was a note reading '_I believe you lost these'_ and in the other there was a bar of lavender soap. The metal container was scratched and sealed tightly shut with numerous clasps. I recognized it as a food delivery box; they were used to carry food orders around the city years ago. When I eventually cracked it open I was welcomed with the most heavenly scent on earth. Gumbo, freshly made and still warm. Taped to the lid was a knife and fork and another note, '_I promise it's safe, try it. Tante Mattie's famous recipe.' _I stared at the note before sniffing the food. I groaned - god it smelt good! I decided I didn't care whether it was poisoned; at least I would die happy. I hadn't eaten a proper, hot meal since two evenings ago, so my hand shook as I forced myself to eat it slowly and savour the flavours. To distract myself I counted the money from the bag. It was curled tightly around a cinnamon stick and tied with a frayed piece of ribbon, as was gifting tradition. I untied the ribbon and smoothed the money out. Bloody hell! There was at least $500 here! That was enough for over a months rent or weeks of full meals!

The cold feeling returned as I surveyed the gifts surrounding me. I had been too busy relishing the sweet smells of Gumbo and lavender and the soft feel of my newly washed clothes to realise the implications they would bring. I chewed slowly; perhaps this meant I owed Mr Trench-coat. Or maybe this was just a sick joke and he would be back to hurt me tomorrow.

I froze.

There was one thing I hadn't considered: how did he know where to find me?

* * *

Dun dun dun. Omg! I just wrote the longest chapter ever! Well for me anyway, so I think thinking of doing some remy pov next? hmmm?

anyways, pretty please review! I just wrote a reeaally looong chapter for you!

oh yeah, I know remy isn't assasins guild but camille dosen't.

and people call her 'Anna' 'cause that's what she told them her name was. Capiche?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


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